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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540201">Lullaby</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterycornbread/pseuds/butterycornbread'>butterycornbread</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, M/M, Romantic Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:35:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterycornbread/pseuds/butterycornbread</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Makoto finally finds a reason to go into the music room.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Naegi Makoto/Togami Byakuya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>220</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lullaby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Makoto first hears it, he thinks for a few seconds he’s finally lost his marbles.</p><p>But no. Standing there in the hall, outside Byakuya’s closed door, he hears it. Faint, muffled by immense distance relative to their miniature world, but undeniably there: music.</p><p>Makoto has not heard music, save for the bell that precedes each school announcement, since he was trapped here. He’s never considered himself more fond of music than the general person—average, even in that—but he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until he hears it now. Moments ago he was intent on curing his insomnia with the warm safety of Byakuya’s arms, but now he’s hurrying to the foyer and up staircase after staircase until he reaches the fourth floor. The music grows louder, more insistent with each step as if beckoning him, urging him along. He’s almost out of breath when he bursts into the music room.</p><p>There on the stage, soft in rosey light, Byakuya plays the piano.</p><p>Makoto can only stare. He’s easily imagined his boyfriend dining in a high class restaurant, sharp-eyed in a business meeting, sipping wine in the luxurious backseat of a black limousine. But he’s never known Byakuya to be artistically inclined whatsoever. Even when he talks about human interaction he does it with the logical language of profit. Still, Makoto supposes, Byakuya is not an ultimate mathematician. He is known for his lineage first, an overall distinction. And he’s described himself as the ultimate perfection more than once. Perhaps he’s just unflawed in everything he attempts—</p><p>Onstage, Byakuya hits a discordant key and hisses a curse.</p><p>Makoto stifles a wince and a smile. He briefly considers going back to his room—this unknown side of Byakuya might prompt embarrassment upon discovery, and right around the corner from embarrassment is rage—but he’s too warmed by this rare sight to pass it up so quickly. He makes his slow way up the center aisle, running his fingertips over the polished wood backing each seat. He pauses again at the base of the stage, hesitant to startle Byakuya. He doesn’t mind waiting; he quickly becomes entranced by Byakuya’s fingers, longer and finer than Makoto’s own, plucking their way over the keys, never lingering, never clumsy, never . . .</p><p>“I believe it’s generally considered rude,” Byakuya says without looking up, “to stare.”</p><p>Makoto jumps a little. He doesn’t think he made any noise when he entered, not that a detail like that matters with Byakuya. He climbs up onto the stage and, when Byakuya reaches the end of the measure, provides ample applause.</p><p>Byakuya flexes his fingers, staring intensely at the piano as if interrogating it for a crime. “Mm.”</p><p>“I didn’t know you could play,” Makoto says, standing just behind the bench so he can rest his hands on Byakuya’s shoulders. As always, they tense under his touch before relaxing, but they don’t get quite so stiff as they used to. “You’re really good.”</p><p>Byakuya scoffs. “Yes, you would think that.”</p><p>But Makoto knows now that the scathing tone is false fire; it may appear dangerous, but it won’t burn him. He stays quiet, partially due to the dull sleepiness hovering uselessly toward the back of his head, and patiently waits.</p><p>Byakuya touches a key, but not hard enough to make a sound. “. . . It was my mother’s idea. She wanted me to use my fingers on something more <em> elegant </em> than computing keyboards.”</p><p>“And calculators,” Makoto adds, before common sense kicks in.</p><p>Byakuya leans back enough to look up at him. His blue eyes are unamused behind the light reflected in his lenses. “I’m going to give you the gift of pretending you didn’t say that, Naegi.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Makoto mumbles, and shyly ducks down. Byakuya regards him appraisingly, then gives a soft hum of surrender and touches his cheek. It’s only a—seemingly—disinterested brush of his thumb along the corner of Makoto’s mouth, as if clearing away a crumb, but for Byakuya it’s the equivalent of an embrace. Makoto perks up and squeezes onto the edge of the bench, hip to hip. Not knee to knee, of course; his boyfriend has a lot more leg to tuck beneath the bench.</p><p>“You can play without paper, though,” Makoto says. “That’s impressive to me. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” He sees feathers ruffling and hastily adds, “Do you think you could teach me?”</p><p>“I can teach anything. Whether you can learn is another matter entirely.” Byakuya takes one look at Makoto—he hasn’t practised these puppy dog eyes in the mirror, no, not at all—and huffs. “Fine. Do you know any scales?”</p><p>Makoto sucks his lips between his teeth, then tries tentatively and tone-deafly, <em> “Do re mi . . . ?” </em></p><p>Byakuya stares at him, fierce and unreadable, until Makoto breaks: “I don’t know any music stuff, sorry. But at least I’m a blank slate?” He offers a half-hearted grin. “No bad habits?”</p><p>Byakuya tortures him for another moment before he arches an eyebrow and says, “I’d like to see, one day, what it’s like in that head of yours. Very spacious, I imagine.”</p><p>That one surprises him by hurting, just a little. Nothing about Makoto is perfect, his armor included.</p><p>“But not strictly uncomfortable,” Byakuya goes on, and Makoto is cured. “Your slate isn’t as blank as you think. Regardless, I know you’re not actually interested.”</p><p>Makoto can’t be offended at that, because it’s true. It doesn’t matter to him if he learns the piano tonight. He knows he won’t retain much of what he’s told anyway; he’s too tired for new information to stick in his brain. Really what he wants is to just listen to Byakuya talk. Or watch him play. Or just exist close enough to him that he knows he’s there, which is enough to make Makoto feel content. There is no better place than <em> close</em>, close enough to hear the steady gust of his lungs and beat of his heart.</p><p>“I’m interested in you,” Makoto says, which is safe because it’s never a lie.</p><p>Byakuya rolls his eyes, but he smiles faintly too. “Come here, then.”</p><p>Despite his tiredness, those words still flutter eagerly inside him. It’s taken them both a lot of time to learn each other, but one of the first things Makoto picked up was this. Byakuya, for all his entitlement and attitude, never makes the first move. He never asks, either, at least not in so many words. He just gives his orders and it’s up to Makoto to decide if he’s willing and able to follow them or not.</p><p>Makoto can always <em> come here. </em>That one is his favorite.</p><p>He climbs onto Byakuya’s lap, facing the piano at the slight guiding touches from his boyfriend. The position is awkward until Byakuya shifts backward enough for Makoto to slide down and perch on the bench between his legs instead. The press of Byakuya’s thighs against him is at once calming and exciting—but then Byakuya frames him in his arms and the electricity inside him is grounded. Just like that, they’re breathing together, chests rising and falling in almost perfect sync. Maybe it’s overly sentimental of him, but Makoto loves when this happens: for the connection, and for the reminder that beneath the status of ultimacy or aristocracy, they’re both just people. Makoto wishes Byakuya wouldn’t always try so hard to distance himself from that, from normalcy. But then again, that’s what makes him Byakuya, isn’t it?</p><p>“I like you,” Makoto says, unfiltered fondness overflowing from his heart.</p><p>Byakuya doesn’t say anything, but he hooks his chin over Makoto’s shoulder and begins to play again. It’s a different tune this time, slower, softer. It’s made all the more soothing by this awful place. Makoto slumps back into Byakuya’s chest, eyelids drooping as he watches those deft hands make their dainty dance back and forth across the keys. He holds them with practised grace, wrists up and hands loose, but there’s a slight hesitance as he plays, an uncertainty that is so foreign to Makoto. He marvels again at what a miracle this is, an expression of trust that goes beyond the intimacy of sharing a bed or fixing each other’s tea. Byakuya is giving him this window of self-doubt, and Makoto is looking through and smiling. <em> It’s okay. </em></p><p>He’s gone past over-tired and straight through to exhaustion; the music and warmth lull him so swiftly he doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until he stirs at the brush of lips on his temple. He has the strangest sense that something is missing, but then he realizes the music has stopped. In that same moment, however, Byakuya breaks the nighttime silence once more, this time with a whisper.</p><p>“You’re not so bad yourself.”</p>
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